Drabbles
by mimma
Summary: Various short works.Updated sporadically.
1. Chapter 1

Title:

Rating: G

Characters: Fuji, Yuuta, Mizuki

Notes: Dialogue fic. Set when Yuuta goes home after the Sei Rudolph match.

Summary: In which my characterization sucks and I demonstrate my inability to write depth!fic

"Yuuta, really, I don't understand you. _Why_ would you want me to forgive him? Besides of course him putting you up to it."

"No, Aniki, Mizuki-san didn't put me up it, in fact he didn't even know I was coming home today at _all_. I just want you to promise you won't go after him. Or respond to him if he baits you."

"…apart from the sheer insensibility of not responding, Yuuta, why should I refrain from seeking out someone who might hurt you?"

"Waiting until he actually _does_ something would work- and bloody _hell_, Aniki, I'm not stupid, I'm thirteen, and I live away from home. I can take care of myself!"

"…whatever you say, Yuuta."

"Look, _I'll_ deal with Mizuki-san, alright? He won't pull something like that again, and even if he does, he won't be stupid enough to try to hide it- and you could at least give me a little credit, Aniki, I have a _brain_, you know, even if it's not comparable to your genius one."

"I'm just worried about you, Yuuta, He might try _anything_."

"He won't, Aniki. Not without me knowing about it. Not without it being my choice whether to accept."

"Why won't you stay here, Yuuta? You can't possibly trust him."

"Aside from it being the middle of my _second_ _year_, Aniki, I don't. But…I think I kinda understand him. Just ignore him, okay?"

"…If that's what you want, Yuuta."

_("Why didn't you tell me about the shot?"_

"_It might have helped you beat your brother. Would you have cared?"_

"…"

"_I thought so.")_

-end-


	2. Chapter 2

Resurgence

You're tired, and bruised. Your clothes are torn and your knee's scraped and the only reason you're tolerating this state of affairs is because the only other person here is just as banged up as you, nursing a beautiful black eye and absent-mindedly running fingers through shoulder length hair and cursing.

You should not, you suppose, have been quite as frank about how much better you were then some (most) of the third-year pre-regulars, beating them in straight sets 6-0 in glorious sweeps of speed, proclaiming your disdain, thinking that your previous fame would hold sway in junior high over your sempais as it did over your compatriots. (It would. Just not yet, only a week into the new term.)

You had not expected to be jumped and beaten, by three boys all taller and bigger than you, snarling _this is what we do to upstarts_, holding your arms and preparing to break them.

You had not, also, expected to be joined in the fight by the only other boy in your class who had made a choice to join the regulars, the one who kept long hair and beat you in history.

Between the two of you you sent them running, because you _were_ strong, and so was he, with a hard face that dared you make something out of his altruism.

"I'm only," he said then, grimacing at the soreness of his cheek, "helping you out this once, there won't be a second time."

You didn't say anything, but the set of your jaw told him he wouldn't have to. You wouldn't be that careless again.

Two years on, he's kneeling in scattered strands of his hair, just as bruised as then, telling you in almost the same angry tone voice that you didn't need to do that.

"I'm only," you say, "helping you out this once, there won't be a second time," and you see in the glint of his eyes that there will not.

-end-


	3. Chapter 3

In Hyoutei Atobe struts at the head of silver-and-blue, his team just as showy as he is, proud, arrogant, watchful, heads held high – _we are the Hyoutei regulars, best and brightest of over two hundred_- and they walk like stars, wrapping adulation around them like a birthright.

In Fudomine Tachibana walks, softly but with purpose, his team not so much behind him as beside him, backing him up with their drive against his –_we are the Fudomine tennis team, here and here to stay_- pioneers, or pilgrims, ready to fight for every step of the way.

In Rikkai they stalk, Yukimura at the point of a triangle formed by Emperor and Master, flanked by Gentleman and Trickster, Demon kept from falling behind by Genius and Brazilian, his stride almost like, but not quite, their own, to be smoothed into Rikkai's streamlined brilliance –_we are the champions Rikkaidai, we do not lose_- masters of their domain, kings on a throne that could topple so easily and had never wobbled at all.

In Seigaku red-and-white-and-blue move without coordination, and rarely are they whole –_we are the Seigaku Tennis Regulars, here to win and win and win_- they're a tennis team. They play like one.


End file.
